Noli me tangere
by Mistress of Tales
Summary: Collin thinks about touches. Rating for one f-word only, otherwise it is G. One-shot.


Disclaimer: *points to stuffed likeness of Sandra* You may worship it when I'm done.  
Notes: I'm still working on making Collin more in character. This is sort of a practice. It will probably be updated later, but I'm hungering for nice reviews. ::hinthinthint::  
Dedication: to my betakitten. Sorry for the lack of hot steamy sex.   
One-shot story.

Noli-me-tangere

As I started packing, I mused over something I hardly ever thing about. Touches. Touching someone – physically. Just – skin against skin, right? No, nothing sexual, just this human habit of touching each other. Some do it more than others. And I pondered about this.

One weekend of being the Good Son probably had to take some of the blame for the nonsense that passed through my head. That, and the fact that I was going home and had a hard time keeping any expressions of uncanny joy away from my face. 

My family and the crowd of people surrounding it aren't touchers. If they had been, I would probably have committed suicide as soon as I hit puberty. Some crazy old aunts would insist on the occasional hug, but all senses shut down within twenty feet of those hags and their stinking breath anyway.

During this weekend, my parents had dragged me to friends, family and other people I couldn't remember the names of – and to church. And they never – ever! – touch each other. Which is perfect for me; I'd rather slice my arms off with a hatpin than be lovingly embraced by umpteen hypocrites.

And that brings my derailed train of thoughts to its next point. The touches actually happening here. Handshakes. Handshakes and some very, extremely rare backslaps, but luckily there haven't been anything festive enough happening this weekend for anyone to use that on me. So there have been handshakes, so many I can't count them. And there is something awkward about shaking hands with people who have a personal bubble the size of Ohio. Some cling onto your hand like they are trying to remind themselves that they can't run away. Some take it so quickly it is more of a handgrope than a handshake. And some just extend their arm and hope someone will ravish the limb hanging like a dead ferret from it.

I force back a mocking laughter at the picture, and put my face in serious folds as I close the bag. I go downstairs, announcing that I'm ready to leave. They don't insist that I stay this time; I've suffered my way through dinner, they are out of reasons to hold me back. I wonder why they try, really. They spend most of the time I'm here trying to cover up all the parts of me they don't like. Perhaps it is because I'm going back to the part they like the least and are the most eager to cover up – my roommate.

I wonder – I really wonder – what these desperate handshakers would say if they knew what more than my roommate and best friend Fox is. Perhaps I should tell them. Say, next Sunday dinner?

"Father, you know the boy with the wrong skin color and social class whose name I'm not allowed to mention? He fucks me on a regular basis, and I like it. No, sorry, I _love_ it. Pass the potatoes, please, and be careful, you almost touched my finger when you gave me the peas."

I wonder if it is actually possible to die from pure shock if you haven't got a weak heart. I'd find out soon enough.

I shake hands with my mother. She even gives me a very dry peck on the cheek. Peck is the word – like a small bird that doesn't know the difference between adoration and aggressiveness, and can draw blood when you least expect it. It isn't as much a touch as a warning.

I'm silent on the way home. I never hesitate to call it home. I have nothing in common with those people – my family. Sure, if I am to believe what a lot of people have called me, I'm an asshole and a bastard among other things. But at least I don't pretend to be a loving and caring person at the same time. I don't encourage love and trust and then count my fingers after shaking hands with people.

What is the word of that flower? I think it was Fox who told me about it. He has these weird little snippets of uselessness stored away in his brain. _Noli-me-tangere, that was it. "Touch me not". A flower or plant or something, with a bulb of seeds that is very sensitive to touch. When it is ripe, and something touches it, it bursts and spreads its seeds to the wind._

I don't know why that comes to mind. I've been thinking too much about touching. I'm not a  toucher, that's a heritage I can't get away from I suppose.

I leave the car, not waiting for the last of the weekend's handshakes. I walk to my dorm, to our room, unlock the door and walk inside. I don't have to shake hands with people for a while, and right now it feels like a blessed eternity until they will guilt me into coming again. I drop the bag and stretch the car ride out of my body, relaxing. No more sickening touches for months…

Several pounds of human being slam into me, pinning me roughly to the wall and almost knocking my breath out of me. As I gasp for air, I am bodily hugged by a strong, lean body, and a mouth by my ear purrs out happy noises.

"The. Fuck. You. Doing?" I grunt out.

"Just glad you're back, boss," Fox states calmly, the tone in stark opposition to the death-grip he has on me.

"So that you can suffocate me? Let go!"

He pulls away, but doesn't let go. His arms are still folded tightly around me, and he grins, lustfully and knowingly. "You've got a whole weekend to make up to me. I'm not letting go until you do."

"Whatever," I say, twisting free. He laughs and put an arm around my shoulder. Stubborn bastard. "I'm starving, have you managed to do any shopping in my absence?"

"Sure boss." He leans down to my ear, rubbing my shoulder suggestively. "I even made dessert."

Smooth bastard too. It is good to be home.


End file.
